


Holding the Line

by SilentYay



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 00:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10651596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentYay/pseuds/SilentYay
Summary: Follows the story of a squad of ODSTs as they pass through training and try to survive the war.





	Holding the Line

  


**Section 1: Helljumper, Helljumper, Where You Been?**

  
  


     “We had no idea what we were getting into when we arrived at the 304th Combat Training Unit. I mean, we’d already been through training. We knew how to shoot, we knew how to march, we knew how to salute. What else could they teach us? But I’ll tell you, we were idiots. Basic Training taught us nothing. Seongnam taught us everything.”

-UNSC ODST 1st Lieutenant ****

 

**Chapter 1: Seongnam**

 

     Kepler fell hard, landing on his shoulder with a wet thud. He sprang back to his feet, clearing the way for the rest of his squad to disembark the transport, hoping desperately that no one saw him stumble over the liftgate. Mud covered his armor, but the only thing wounded was his ego. Of course, his squad would never let him live it down. Any hopes for a figuratively clean getaway were dashed when a stern voice called out from the back of the warthog.

     “Jesus, Kepler! We’re not even out of the ‘hog and you’re already embarrassing the unit?”

     Kepler was thankful his visor was still opaque, and therefore his rapidly reddening face wouldn’t be seen. “No, Sergeant! Just applying some natural camouflage.”

     “Uh-huh. If this reflects poorly on me, camo ain’t gonna help you.”

     Kepler wiped a spattering of mud from his visor, and then formed up with the rest of the squad. He let his training take over and stood at attention, with his assault rifle in the patrol ready position. The smear on his visor taunted him as he stood. _Orbital Drop Shock Troopers are supposed to be the best of the best, descending upon our enemies from freaking space. And I can’t even jump out of a truck? Not a good way to start training._

     Sergeant Pyne strode to the front of the trainee column. His always-pristine fatigues and no-nonsense gait spoke volumes about the man. Most people told stories around the campfire about ghosts and monsters. Well, the ghosts and monsters told stories about First Sergeant Richard Pyne. He was a tough son of a bitch who expected the best, because he was the best; or at least, that’s what he told his recruits. The Sergeant looked over the line of troops, pausing to shake his head at Kepler. After a moment, he shouted, “Alright, you greenhorns! Move out!”

     The squad moved off in practiced sync-step. One of the great things about ODST training was that everyone had already been through Basic.  There was no more drilling into them how to stand, how to march, or not to call your Drill Instructor "sir." That didn't mean they were done with drills, however. Being a Helljumper was even more demanding than anything they'd experienced before. So, at the very least, they could look forward to weeks of PT. A fact that was underscored as they crossed the soft, rain-soaked field toward the command post. Another squad, clad in gray shorts and shirts, jogging in formation. A cadence drifted into Kepler's ears. He still remembered a few from back in Basic, but now he had a new one to learn.

     "Helljumper, Helljumper, where you been? / Helljumper, Helljumper, where you been?

     Feet first into hell and back again. / Feet first into hell and back again..."

     The song faded into the distance as Kepler's squad arrived at the command post, which was little more than a tent, a couple of tables slowly sinking into the mud, and maps strewn about. Sergeant Pyne ordered the squad to halt and presented them to the training commander for inspection. Kepler's stomach twisted into knots as the commander walked up and down their line. He was a grizzled veteran with a war weary face and a head of chalk-white hair. Even though he stood nearly a foot shorter than Pyne, he was somehow more imposing.

     The commander - a Captain by the insignia on his collar - walked up to Sargent Pyne, and spoke to him. He talked low enough that Pyne had to lean down slightly. Thanks to the selective audio enhancement equipment built into his helmet, Kepler could still hear the exchange.

     "Sergeant, is your squad combat ready?"

     "Yes, Captain."

     "I wasn't aware mud was now standard issue."

     Kepler could feel Pyne glare at him.

     "No, Captain. The private was a bit over-zealous in his preparations and thought camouflage would give him an edge."

     "Is that so?" The captain walked over to Kepler and said, with a hint of venom, "Your enthusiasm has been noted, but you need to shake that stuff off. Run five laps around the field, then report back to your squad for your Shoothouse Exam."

     Embarrassed but relieved Kepler said, "Thank you, Captain." He turned and jogged off toward the PT field.

 

*****

 

     Private Thomas Paroli crept forward, scraping his shoulder along the concrete wall. It wasn’t loud, but the sound of metal-on-stone still reached him even through his helmet. A sharp rap on the back confirmed that it wasn’t just him that heard it. Paroli winced. Chances were that the other team didn’t catch it, but if they had, it could have cost them the exam. At least this time they were only facing off against trained ODSTs. If this were the field, a failing score would be the least of their concerns. Not to mention the fact that some of the Covenant races had superb hearing.

     The private came up to a door and pressed himself flat against the wall, careful to be sure that the softer parts of his uniform hit the wall first. He lowered his weapon as another trainee, still mud-adorned, took position opposite to him. Glancing around, he took in the building around him. The soot-stained concrete structure was designed to simulate anything from a corporate office, to military bunker, to private residence during drills and exams. Sometimes students would be sent in alone to practice their room-clearing skills against articulated wood targets. Other times, whole squads would be sent in either to compete against one another for practice against live, thinking targets, or to be evaluated against trained, elite troops. Everywhere Paroli looked, there were pock-marks, scorch marks, and patchwork reconstruction. The building had seen so much wear, it was a wonder the thing was still standing.

     The shoothouse exam was 2nd squad’s first team evaluation since they began ODST training.  While their entire careers weren’t depending on the outcome, failing wouldn’t be the most auspicious start. Paroli had expected all hell to break loose as soon as they set foot into the worn structure. But that wasn’t the case. No training bullets went flying, no deluge of fury in 190-pound packages. In fact, they had managed to clear the entire first floor and half of the second without running into anyone. Corsi was becoming complacent, convinced that there was no other team and that this was some kind of psychological test. On the other hand, Paroli’s heart rate went up with every room they cleared. The odds that they would finally encounter some resistance were just about ludicrous, so this time when Kepler held up a flashbang grenade suggesting its use, Paroli nodded. A few moments later, he felt the soldier behind him tap him once on the left shoulder. They were ready.

     Paroli held up three fingers and began counting down. When he reached one, a shout from behind caught his attention. He turned just in time to see a bright flash. Three of his teammates slumped to the floor. “Ambush!” Worsley and Deihl turned to bring their weapons to bear just as a pair of soldiers poked around the corner. The hallway filled with bullets. Deihl took a round to the chest and dropped, but Worsley was able to return fire. The opposing troops ducked back behind the wall. They were exposed, there was no cover in the hall. Paroli motioned to Kepler to cover him, turned, and kicked in the door. He pulled back just in time to narrowly a hailstorm that ushered from the room beyond. The cacophony must have signaled an opportunity to the soldiers down the hall, because they once again peered around the corner and opened fire. Paroli knelt down as the troopers behind him fired back. Even through the filters in his helmet, Paroli could smell a faint familiar tang of spent rounds. He heard another of his teammates collapse to the floor, just as Kepler tossed a flashbang into the the room. When the grenade went off, the guns in the room fell silent. “Go, go!” One at a time, the four remaining members of Paroli’s squad ducked into the room. The opposing troops inside were still stunned and quickly fell to precision shots.

     Kepler, Keefe, and Strasser took cover behind an overturned couch and table, their rifles trained on the open doorway. Paroli took a quick look around and swore.

     Keefe chimed in. “What’s wrong?”

     “There’s no other way out.”

     “Crap. Then we’ll have to go back out the way we came.”

     The sound of boots on concrete and subtle radio noise rapidly approached the open door. Paroli sighed and took cover behind a bookcase. “Not that way, we’re not.” He raised his rifle, aimed at the only exit, and waited for the inevitable. And waited. Time dragged on and there was no sign of movement, no muted sound of chatter, no calls for them to surrender. Scenario after scenario screamed through Paroli’s mind, all of them ending in utter failure. They had cover now, but that same cover didn’t help the room’s previous occupants. As the moments ticked away, one thought crossed his mind. _Is this exam timed?_ He couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

     A voice burst over his radio. “Something funny, Paroli?” Paroli could swear he heard the Sergeant frowning.

     “No, Sergeant.”

     “I didn’t think so. I hope you have a plan for getting what’s left of your squad out of there.”

_Me too._

     He knew they couldn’t stay holed up forever. Flashbangs wouldn’t do the enemy much good. The squad’s helmets were designed to prevent disorientation from exactly that kind of weapon. Still, one well-placed frag grenade would put them into a world of hurt. But with one exit, undoubtedly flanked by the entire enemy squad, they couldn’t just walk out. Paroli felt the subtle pull of the grenade satchel on his belt and smiled. He said, “Hey, does anyone remember if they’re wearing helmets?”

     Keefe and Strasser shook their heads and Kepler replied, “Not the ones I saw, why?”

     Paroli held up a flashbang. “‘Cause I have a gift for them.”

     He signaled to his squad to be ready to move, stepped out from behind cover, and tossed the grenade at the open doorway. He learned two things immediately after that. First, flashbangs rebound off tactical armor better than he thought. Second, ODST helmets aren’t 100% resistant to them. The squad aimed their weapons at the figure that blocked the grenade. Through the haze, he saw the man raise a pistol. “Open fire!”

     They greeted the man with bouquets of bullets. Paroli expected the intruder to drop quickly, but he stoically stood his ground, returning fire. First Kepler went down, felled by a hit to the chest. Then Strasser was tagged in the shoulder and collapsed in a heap. Paroli heard the muted click that signaled an empty magazine just as Keefe took a round to the gut. With the fog finally clearing, he saw Worsley’s slack form being held aloft, someone else’s arm reaching around aiming a sidearm at him. There was a flash, a wet splatter of something hitting his visor, and the world went dark.

 

*****

 

     The first sensation Paroli felt was pain throbbing in his head. After that, light filtering in through his eyelids, and a cool breeze wafting over his face. The stinging scent of gunpowder made him cough and wrenched him from unconsciousness. He opened his eyes to see Sergeant Pyne standing over him, stern and grim as ever.

     “Welcome back, Private.” Pyne offered a hand and helped the fallen trooper off the concrete floor and to his feet. “But you may wish you had stayed asleep.”

     His voice cracking, Paroli said, “What happened?”

     “You failed. That’s what happened.”

     His heart sunk. “They wiped us out.”

     Pyne’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, but that’s not why you failed.” He jabbed a finger into Paroli’s chest. “You failed because you shot one of your own guys.”

     Paroli glanced to the side. Worsley, sheepishly trying to avoid eye contact, sat on a crate, cleaning an impressive amount of paint off his armor.

     “I didn’t know-”

     Strasser pleaded, “Come on, Sarge, he was already dead as far as the test was concerned!”

     “I don’t care!” Pyne barked. He glared at both privates. “What if that wasn’t Worsley? What if that was some terrified civilian being used as a human shield? I guarantee the Covenant won’t hesitate to use tactics like that. Hell, they’d consider it a bonus!” Pyne locked eyes with Paroli. “You failed, because you opened fire on a target without clearly identifying it first. That’s an inexcusable mistake Private. Don’t let it happen again.”

     The sergeant addressed the whole of 2nd Squad. “Clean yourselves up, then report to the PT course. We’re running drills in ten. Full gear.”

     A chorus of grunts and groans rang out as the troopers shuffled toward the shoothouse exit. Paroli felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. It was bad enough that they failed on his watch, worse that they theoretically ventilated one of their own guys; but the worst part was that Pyne was right. If this hadn’t been a test, it could have been anyone in that doorway. In training, they said accidents happen, like it was part of doing business. But even though this was a training exercise, Paroli knew it looked a lot different when it’s your accident.

     Kepler rapped Paroli on the shoulder as he walked by. “Rule number seven, boss,” he said, putting on his helmet, “‘Friendly fire isn’t.’”

 

*****

 

     The trip back to the 340th Combat Training Unit’s base was quiet, despite the roar of the transport’s engine and the wind whipping past. No one said a word. Most were too tired. The ones who did have something to say, didn’t. Whatever his comrades’ reasons were, personally, Pvt. Eugene Strasser didn’t want to yell over the background din, and he certainly didn’t want his comments to go over the radio and on-record. He still fumed over the way Pyne bit into them. All of their teammates were dead as far as the test was concerned and there were no civilians in play. They were in a desperate situation facing a full team of professional special forces soldiers. They had no way of knowing the person in the doorway wasn’t the enemy, so they took no chances. The worst thing they were guilty of was wasting ammo and giving Ben “Paint Can” Worsley his new nickname.

     They pulled into the motorpool and disembarked in silence. The sergeant dismissed them for liberty, and everyone shuffled into the labyrinthine hallways. First stop, the armory, to drop off their equipment. As they walked in and helmets came off, chatter started to bloom. There were only a few muttered comments between soldiers while glancing around. Some of them took long, venomous looks at Paroli before grumbling to each other. It wasn’t fair for them to blame Paroli for what happened. He did the best he could and a damn sight better than most of themwould have. Maybe they knew that. Instead of confronting him, everyone just dropped off their equipment with the armory officer, changed out of their armor, and left. Strasser noticed the armory officer give Worsley a very confused look when he turned in his now-pastel red rifle, and assorted supplies.

     “Next time, Private, you might consider ducking.” He said, helpfully.

     Worsely smiled weakly and walked to his locker to change. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

     Strasser finished changing, checked out with the armory officer, and headed out into the base. As tired as he was, the only thing he could think about was the empty growling pit that was his stomach. After the day they had, most of the unit was probably starving. He stopped by the squad’s barracks, checked his personal terminal for messages, grabbed his wallet, and then headed to the mess hall. Back in basic, they had a running joke that if you didn’t die from the enemy, you’d die from the food. Strasser was convinced it was a conspiracy to get base personnel to buy more from the commissary, and so far no one has bothered to prove him wrong.

     He arrived to find himself one of the few people there. A couple small groups congregated in the corners, munching on what appeared to be meatloaf, potatoes, assorted vegetables, and a likely rock-hard dinner roll. He grabbed a tray and lined up for the free fare, which looked marginally more edible up close than it did from afar, when he noticed Paroli sidle up next to him.

     “Hey, Tom. How’re you holding up?”

     Paroli shrugged, taking a couple pieces of the faux-loaf, “Not bad. But, I’m kicking myself for failing the team.”

     Strasser replied as they turned and headed for an open table, “Ah, don’t let it get to you. We got gypped.”

     “Did we, though?”

     A voice chimed in from behind them, “Damn right we did.” They turned and found Corsi, Kepler, and Deihl walking in. Deihl said, “We did everything by the book, and Pyne still failed us.”

     Paroli said, “He failed me, not you guys.”

     Strasser chuckled. “Really? Cause I’m pretty sure we all got a failing grade for that exam.”

     “No, I mean, you’re right. But everyone did their job there until I screwed up. It was my mistake, so he failed me.”

     Kepler slapped Paroli on the shoulder. “Dude, we knew the parameters of the test. There wasn’t anyone there besides us and Bravo squad. You acted accordingly. The Sarge was wrong.”

     Paroli put his hands up. Strasser thought he was going to concede the point, but then he said, “Look, guys, I appreciate the support. But Pyne was right. If it hadn’t been a test, we wouldn’t know what to expect.  There wouldn’t be an guaranteed ‘parameters,’ or lists of involved combatants. And the way we train shouldn’t be any different than the way we operate in the field. Out there, it isn’t so cut and dry. Really, I’m ok with this. It’s a learning experience.”

     Corsi said, “Well, if you say so. Me, I still say the odds were stacked against us. Otherwise we would have kicked their asses.”

     Kepler held up a hand and said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you hit the deck without firing a shot?”

     Corsi laughed and jabbed, “Oh, I’m supposed to take crap from the guy who tripped getting out of the warthog?” Everyone at the table burst into laughter.

     Worsley, carrying a truly full tray walked up to the table and sat down. “Hey guys.”

     Strasser waved and said, between bites, “Hey Paint Can.”

     Worsley winced. “That’s not going to become a thing, is it?”

     Deihl snickered. “Sorry to say, but I think it’s too late for that.”

     Worsley groaned and everyone else laughed.

     Strasser smiled, looking around at his comrades. He had been ready to back Paroli against the others if it had come down to it. Hell, he’d even started working out a passioned and emphatic argument on the way to the mess hall. Now, however, it seemed it was a wasted effort. No one so far had even hinted that they blamed him for the exam. If anything, the incident seemed to have galvanized them as a unit. As the conversation went on, more of the squad showed up, some with trays of mostly-edibles. The conversation moved swiftly from their less-than-stellar performance at the shoothouse, to the recent soccer match. Deihl had twenty credits riding on the Seoul Strikers, but they lost to a team no one had even heard of from China. Now, she owed Stavins money she didn’t have. He’d forget about it eventually, (hell, Strasser doubted if he was even serious about the bet in the first place), but that wasn’t the point. Deihl took it seriously, so Stavins was going to have fun with it.

     “Oh, come on Stavins! I swear I’m good for it.”

     “You know, there are other ways you can pay off your debt.”

     Corsi nearly sprayed his drink in Kepler’s face.

     “I’m pretty sure _that_ would get us both kicked out of the unit.”

     Turning a nice crimson hue, Stavins said, “That’s not what I meant. I meant, maybe you can convince Pyne to let you run my PT for me.”

     “Nice recovery, Romeo.” Strasser said, slapping Stavins on the back. The collective soldiers erupted into laughter.

     As the roar died down, Strasser turned to Corsi and asked, “Any word from Ballast?”

     Corsi tried to keep smiling, but the effort belied a grim spectre behind the façade. “Not yet. I mean, there’s footage all over the news, but nothing from the Tenmar Province.”

     Keefe rested a hand on his shoulder and said softly, “Hey, I’m sure your parents made it out ok.”

     “Hell yeah, they did!” Leo Manera said, wrenching his way into the conversation. “You know why? Cause there were _Spartans_ on Ballast!”

     Three of them groaned at the mention of the supersoldiers. Strasser merely shook his head and Kepler blurted out “Oh, not this shit again.”

     Manera’s stood, his demeanor souring as if someone had kicked his puppy. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

     Kepler laughed and turned in his seat to face the soldier. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard the hero-worshiping stories. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time Manera had sung the gospel. He’d personally told each and every one of them the harrowing tale of how a Spartan had saved his life while he was a grunt on Paris IV. Granted the battle was a horrible experience, but he was nowhere near the front and was already being evacuated when an errant plasma mortar came their way. The way he told it, you’d think he was saved by a knight in literal shining armor, but the truth was it was more of an accident. Strasser could imagine the Spartan looking at Manera and saying “Oh, you’re alive. Good.”

     “You know what I mean, Leo.”

     Manera scowled as he looked around the table, his glare met by unsympathetic gazes. “Hey, Spartans are heroes.”

     “Are they though?” Deihl asked. The question startled Strasser. Previously, they had just let the guy spout his stories, rolling their eyes when he wasn’t looking. Apparently, she had finally had enough.

     Manera was caught just as off guard. His voice raised a full octave when he replied, “Of course they are! Spartans never die. They’ve fought off entire-”

     “But they do go missing.”

     Strasser watched as Manera’s face turned a faint shade of red. He felt bad for the guy, having his beliefs challenged like that, but at the same time, it was entertaining. He had always claimed to be without religion, but Strasser could easily make the claim that, like many other soldiers, Manera had knelt at the altar of the Holy Spartans. Of course, no one would actually _say_ any of this to him. Fighting a war against a nigh-unstoppable force of religious zealots tends to make one sensitive to the subject of religious fervor and extremism. And the last thing anyone wanted to do was accidentally imply a similarity between one of their friends and the Covenant.

     Manera took a slow, deep breath. Then, he said in a voice like explaining something to a child, “They’re not missing. They’re on secret missions for ONI.”

     Deihl shook her head. “Naval Intelligence has sent other operatives out on classified ops before without listing them as missing.” Manera began to protest, but she cut him off, put her hands up in a calming motion. “Look, I’m not saying the Spartans aren’t incredible and I’m not saying they haven’t done amazing things. I’m just saying we can’t get lost in the hype. Let me ask you this: How many Spartans were there on Paris IV? That you know of.”

     “Three.” He said, smiling again.

     “And how did that end for us?”

     His smile faded once he realized he had no good answer for her. No one knew what the Spartans were doing at the battle, or how their mission fared. But Manera’s faith in them must have been pushing him to claim victory in their name. At the same time, he couldn’t call the battle a victory because they still lost the planet. Thousands of people lost their lives and even more lost their homes and everything they had. The battle was only a victory in that they were able to save a majority of the civilian population. But even that victory came at a heavy price. Manera was lucky he never made it to the front before they called for a tactical retreat. If he had, he probably wouldn’t be standing there, arguing about the merits of super-soldiers. Manera’s stance softened and his shoulders dropped as he silently admitted defeat.

     Deihl sighed. “The real heroes? They’re the ones in the foxhole next to you. They’re the ones holding the line so families and children can get to safety. They’re the ones that put the Spartans in a position to perform their incredible acts. Spartans aren’t heroes, they’re weapons. And they may end up being the key to winning this war, but it’s us: the grunts, the helljumpers, and the flyboys that are giving everything we have and then some to ensure there’s still a world left for them to save.”

     The room was silent. Manera smiled weakly. Whether or not he would take anything she said to heart, he would at least walk away with one thing. The Spartans were a source of hope for him, and that was still ok. It was a touching moment. Until, that is, Kepler turned to Deihl and asked, “So, how long have you been holding _that_ back?”

 

*****

 

     Fully sated, Jack Corsi plodded his way back to the team barracks. The team had liberty right up until lights-out, which was a nice change of pace. Normally, they were running drills or in classes right up until they collectively passed out in their bunks. Most of the team split between spending some time in the gym and the firing range, but Strasser bringing up his home had Corsi distracted. He needed to deal with it before it festered and impacted his training. At least, that’s what he told himself. In truth, the colony of Ballast was always on his mind. Most soldiers, whether on deployment or in training thought about home constantly, but for them it was a source of hope and comfort. For Corsi, it was something else. He needed to hear something, anything, that would help him figure out if his family was alive or not.

     He strode into the barracks, sat on his bunk, and grabbed his personal terminal off of the small desk. After his third attempt at logging into the base network Corsi stopped, took a breath, and slowly typed in his password. The pad chimed a successful login and he called up the extranet connection. His fingers flying over the keyboard, he ran through the typical list of search keywords: Ballast, colony, battle, survivors, etc. Each search brought up a litany of news articles, most mundane archived stories from before the attack. There were a lot of accounts from both during and after the battle, but frustratingly, none mentioned his family, the old neighborhood, or anything that would give him some clue as to their fate.

     After exhausting every other search he could think of, he typed in “Ballast casualty reports” into the search field. His hand hovered, trembling over the search button. In his mind, he had gone back to the day he left for training. His parents had both taken the day off to say goodbye. Even his younger brother had ditched classes to be there. Their father wasn’t happy about that fact, but he was even less happy that Corsi had volunteered for the ODST corps. His mother was nervous about the idea of him serving during wartime, but she trusted him enough to believe he was doing what he thought was right. His brother Chris, who already looked up to Jack, practically started hero-worshiping him. It wasn’t long after he signed up that he heard stories about his little brother telling everyone that Corsi was going to “give the Covenant the ass-kicking they deserved.”

     Unfortunately, his father wasn’t as supportive. They’d fought about it constantly since he signed up. His father would go on about how he was too smart for the corps, he was throwing his life away, and that people were dying in droves in the war. Corsi could never argue that last point, but he always tried to turn it on his father. He’d argue that the people dying weren’t just soldiers, but colonists like them. He argued constantly that the Covenant didn’t care if someone was holding a weapon, everyone was a target. But his passionate defense fell on deaf ears. Jack Corsi Sr. was one of those people who thought the UNSC inflated the danger posed by the Covenant. He dismissed all of the reports of colonies annihilated and civilians slaughtered as propaganda. And since none of the attacks had happened near their world, he assumed they were safe. After all, why would the Covenant take interest in their small, out of the way agricultural colony? They weren’t a threat to anyone.

     Still, despite all of the fighting, they were still family. And they were both adult enough to put aside their differences long enough for Corsi’s father to wish him luck and for Corsi to accept it without comment. He hugged them all and promised his mother he’d send letters as often as he could, then gathered his things and walked to the shuttle that would take him to the in-processing facility. They were nervous, scared, and excited for him and he felt all of the same for himself. It never occurred to him that here, three months later and lightyears away, he would be nervous and scared for them.

     Corsi had been so focused on whether or not he even wanted to start combing through casualty lists, that he never noticed the rest of the squad had filed into the barracks, and he almost missed Pyne making an entrance as well. Stavins called everyone to attention and in practiced reflex, Corsi shut off the pad, tossed it on the desk, and snapped to attention at the foot of his bunk. He stood there, pushing his mind to stay in the room with him. It wasn’t easy, but this had become a daily ritual with him. And each passing day, he got just a little bit better at it. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Pyne marched down each row of soldiers, inspecting them first, then the corresponding bunk and footlocker. In their first week of Basic everyone got dinged for some infraction, either contraband in their footlocker or improperly folded sheets. Although everyone grumbled about being hit with a violation, not to mention the resulting loss of privileges, it wasn’t personal. Now, it was a rare occasion that they would miss any detail. The Sergeant stopped and took a hard look at Kepler, but the soldier didn’t budge. Corsi wasn’t sure if it was confidence or fear, but either way it worked. A protracted moment later, Pyne moved on. Once he had made his round, he turned and addressed the room.

     “Get a good night’s rest, Second Squad. You’re going to need it tomorrow.”

     “Thank you, Sergeant!” came the unanimous response.

     Everyone turned and climbed into bed with all the coordination of a synchronized swim team (another daily ritual for now) and Pyne turned off the lights. In the darkness and silence, Corsi’s mind began to wander again.

 

**Chapter 2: <To be Determined>**

 

     The weather report called for more rainstorms that morning and did not disappoint. By an hour after reveille, then entire grounds was a soggy mess. For most of the 304 th , that meant a day of light exercise and additional lectures. However, Sergeant Pyne believed that “an ODST is not scared of a little inclement weather.” So, instead of staying inside and learning about navigational methods, topographical maps, and recon tactics, Second Squad was out in the woods on a full-gear 20 kilometer march. Kepler would have rather been in the lectures. It wasn’t about the rain, or the wind. One good thing about marching in full gear was the weather really bother them much. Their armor kept them dry and kept the wind from cutting through them. What Kepler objected to was wasting their time on more formation marches and PT drills, when they could be learning more important skills. He also couldn’t help but notice that Pyne hadn’t joined them for this particular drill. Instead, Paroli was leading the squad.

     The wind and rain outside would have made normal conversation difficult at best, so to voice his concerns, Kepler turned on his mic. “Specialist Paroli? Permission to speak?”

     Paroli turned his helmeted head as his voice came over the comm, “Granted.”

     “Why the hell are we out here?”

     “Because Sergeant Pyne said so.”

     “Yes, Specialist, I get that. I mean, why does he want us out here marching in this crap weather when we could be back at base learning something we’ll actually need?”

     “You don’t think we’ll be marching when we’re deployed?” Paroli’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. Kepler heard a few muffled laughs.

     Kepler scowled, then continued, “Yes, Specialist, I’m sure we will. It’s just, when we drop into a combat zone, I’d rather be well-versed in how to find my way to my objective than in formation marching.”

     There was a pause where the squad once again marched in silence. “I don’t know, private. Maybe he thinks this will keep us in prime form. Maybe he has something else planned. Maybe he’s just using us to show off. Or maybe he’s hoping you’ll quit in protest and he’ll be able to start training the rest of us in earnest.” There was another round of laughter. Even Kepler couldn’t help but smile at the jab. “Regardless, it’s not our job to question our orders. It’s our job to do as we’re told and trust that the person in charge of training us will train us properly.”

     “Understood, Specialist.”

     The wind had died down and the rain spattering against Kepler’s helmet and visor created a calming white noise. Kepler’s resentment washed away as they left the forest behind them. Paroli had a point: Pyne may have been an ass, but he knew what he was doing. Kepler promised himself he’d try to remember that in the future.

 

*****

 

     Pyne had left instructions for Second Squad to assemble in the base hanger after they changed out of their armor. When they arrived, they found the usual activity. There were a couple of Pelican dropships being worked on by engineers on the other side of the bay. To the left of the entrance, over by the hangar doors, Pyne had set up several easels with diagrams and stats tacked on them in a semicircle in front of a dozen folding chairs. In the center of the semicircle was a tall, boxy, teardrop-shaped hunk of metal standing more than twice the Sergeant’s height. The squad took their seats and he started the lecture.

     “Alright, Second Squad, take your seats.” He motioned to the drop pod behind him. “This is the Single Occupant Exo-Atmospheric Insertion Vehicle, also known as a Human Entry Vehicle or ‘drop pod.’”

     Kepler looked up at the SOEIV. Next to their armor, the drop pods were emblematic of the ODSTs. Every pulp story and popular vid that featured ODSTs inevitably included their pods as well. The front canopy of the one in front of the squad had been removed so they could see inside. There was a single seat with flight controls to one side. Lining the spaces around the seat were storage compartments for equipment, ammunition, and weapons of various size. The canopy door, which had been set to the side and turned so they could see the inside, was lined with communication equipment and navigational displays. It had all of the comfort and coziness of a metal coffin packed for a trip of the implied length.

     “This will be your primary method of ingress to most of your mission sites. If you wanted to take a leisurely trip to the landing zone in a Pelican, sipping tea, you should have stayed with the marines!”

     Deihl and Strasser chuckled, which drew a stern look from Pyne. Kepler shook his head subtly. _Is there nothing that_ doesn’t _piss that guy off?_

     Pyne continued, “Once deployed, you will each be assigned a specific drop pod. Over the next two weeks, you will learn how to operate, pack, and do basic maintenance on your SOEIV. While there will be a dedicated maintenance team to do the major repairs and upkeep, it is up to each and every one of you to ensure the operational condition of your own pods before each drop.” He handed a stack of thick manuals to Manera, who took one and passed the rest.

     As the stack went around, Pyne lectured. “These manuals will familiarize you with the capabilities and operation of these vehicles. We will be going over each section together, but take some time now to scan through it.”

     Manera raised his hand. When Pyne saw him, he stopped in his tracks and sighed. “This isn’t pre-school, Manera. If you have a question, say so.”

     Lowering his hand, Manera said, “I have a question, Sergeant.”

     Kepler couldn’t help but snicker. He probably would have drawn the Sergeant’s ire again if he’d been the only one.

     “What is it, private?”

     “I thought the drop pods were just kinda…well, dropped.” He pointed at the interior of the example pod. “How come there’s a control stick?”

     “Glad you asked. The term “drop pod” is somewhat inaccurate. Once a landing zone has been determined, and a trajectory calculated, a series of electromagnetic coils similar in operation to a Magnetic Accelerator Cannon guide the pod down the launch tube and toward its destination. Once in transit, the flight controls can be used to manually adjust the pre-programmed flight path to account for changing battlefield conditions or a change in landing zone.” The Sergeant checked his watch. “Alright, take thirty minutes and look over the manual.”

     Kepler opened his book and started flipping through the pages. Some of them were covered in technical descriptions and diagrams, others were block after block of text describing various components of the SOEIV. About three-quarters of the way through the manual, he stopped cold. The title on the page Kepler had just flipped to read “Section 6: Emergency Procedures for Catastrophic System Failures.” There it was, the thing that no one talked about except in training documents and waivers. Even in the best of conditions, the pods weren’t infallible. Every once in a great while, heat shields would crack or thrusters would fail, and some poor bastard would end up digging his own grave. A lot could go wrong when you’re being fired at a planet.

     Flipping back to an earlier section, Kepler skimmed through the description of part of the long-range comm unit, and hoped to put the rest out of his mind. Looking around, everyone else seemed engrossed in their own manuals, but nothing on their faces indicated they’d made it to the same section he had. On the one hand, he was glad they hadn’t. On the other, they’d have to deal with it eventually.


End file.
